Raindrops on Roses

Plants live with their heads in the Earth, their asses in the air.  We love the smell, usually, of their reproductive organs and pick them to give to our beloveds  (a highly suggestive though unconscious act.) ~ Stephen Buhner, Plant Intelligence

 

peace rose in rainA light mist kissing

blossoms, fragrance blessing my

inquisitive nose

yellow rose raindrop

Inspired by Tuesday’s photo challenge for a closeup.  Wait, it’s Wednesday?  Does anybody really know what time it is?

As We Enter Deep Places

So, at a level far below that of language, the feeling meaning of the story goes inside you, into a very deep, dreaming place.  Into the place where your deepest feelings reside.  And there it changes who you are, just as all good stories do. ~ Stephen Buhner, Plant Intelligence

In polite conversation, it’s just not done

to say, “She hated me,” and so I laugh,

as if the emotion has no substance.

Expecting some bland reply, if any —

ah, it’s an enigma

that you feel so blue.

Feel better now.  Is it only

natural to sidestep these deep 

openings? But you love me

and you ask me to embrace

my grief and pain and pure pissed-off

chagrin at her hostility.

You pull me out into the garden

redolent with peppermint and fresh-cut grass

gifts from the breeze

over the spring-fed pond.

The coolness heralding the turning

toward the fall, 

when all things appear 

to die after a blaze of vivid

protest or celebration.

Your hand in mine, my emotions

free to move as we pace

into the unknown places

this moment has revealed.

 

Inspired by: Enigma, SubstanceBlue, Redolent, Natural

The Way Is Deep

The increase in complexity includes the generation of millions upon millions of complex forms of life, all with complex behaviors, all tied together through webs of connection and relationship.  All an irremovable part of the web of life.  All of them a part of Gaia, all of them Gaia in one form or another. ~ Stephen Buhner

The healing path can seem torturous

a labyrinth of tree

tunnels with no higher perspective.

My brother says there is no god as his port

is filled with chemo.  He has renounced

religious dogma and its political control.

He scoffs at faith in magic.

I wanted to write a novel

about the spiritual poverty

inherent in my own debilitating illness.

Raise a commotion

about the cause of inflammation.

Add more fuel — such valuable

wood, hand-collected, to the very fire

I wish to comprehend.

The wildfire that swept through

and burned every bit of me.

Going deep into the woods

trudging sometimes alarmed

by the roots that trip, 

the looming shadows, deep

with danger.  For so long, I have

watched the skies, rejoicing

in sun-dappled touches,

light, fleeting.

Seeking illumination as the way out

of here.  Here in the primeval 

forest of fragile beginnings

in the rotting decomposition

the place which the lightseekers

avoid.  I let go of these precious 

bodies I’ve been dragging.  Gaia has been

waiting for me, in me,

where all the adjustments I seek

can be woven.  My colors,

my yarn, my patterns.

Only I can create space to feel

these intricate threads which stretch

vibrating between us in a harmony

I must simply trust 

and allow to unfold.

My essential being opens

in this presence huge

beyond my comprehension. 

Available perhaps only through

transmission.  Every word dripping

in a poem of power

to land its healing vibes

directly into your heart.

 

Inspired by: Debilitate, Commotion, Novel, Poverty

Sunset Walk

Every four-year-old child understands that the world is alive, intelligent, aware, communicative and filled with soul. ~ Stephen Buhner

She spies us from her hilltop

and screams since her parents insist

she ask first.  Running heart-first,

she stops and pivots in visible

frustration, torn between her cell-

deep celebration and the civilizing

influence.  We are pacing mindfully

aware that 14 times 7 equals 98

in human years but already

in that connected space that wags

tails and beams across faces.

Relief as the hidden is revealed,

our generous gifts emerging even

before our exuberant meeting.  A spray

of water from a wet fur coat

is greeted with a delighted squeal

and we regard each other 

with such spaciousness.  True

availability in this present moment.

Shaky cartwheels and petting,

eyes meeting and secrets shared:

the candour of the innocent,

the eloquence of the child.

Revitalized, we walk away, standing tall.

Waving every few steps to the goodbyes

so extravagantly bestowed.

The strong four-year-old heart,

pure, emanating power.  We are all

radiating abundance and she races

across her lawn for one final

touch across the so-called space

that divides us.  And I pet my

wagging companion, embraced

by my own wide and spreading smile

as we head into the last

vivid flames of sunset.

 

Inspired by: Hidden, Candor, Eloquence